


Lucifer's Entourage

by Witherstone



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Behind the Scenes, Chloe KNOWS, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, How does it all even work, Humor, Light-Hearted, Nothing Hurts, POV Third Person, Seriously it gets kinda dark, Unless it does, i mean think about it, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:20:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28939134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witherstone/pseuds/Witherstone
Summary: Let's give up the stage to those who work tirelessly on keeping the world spinning despite the forces of Hell trying to break it apart. Established Deckerstar, set in S05. Also, I own nothing.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 19
Kudos: 128





	1. The Bartender

"Can I get a round on the house? I know the owner."

Patrick glanced at the attractive redhead leaning on the bar and her two friends giggling from behind her. It was barely 8 PM on a Friday but he could tell it will be a busy shift.

"What's the password for today?", he asked, eyeing the girl skeptically. He was good with faces, but she wasn't a regular and by her confused look she must've been at least two weeks behind on the new rules. Meaning old flame, meaning no free shots, especially since she didn't even try to hit on him.

A code phrase was a trick Maze taught him to keep the place from financial ruin. She invented many tiny mind games to torture the clubgoers that felt entitled for knowing Mr. Morningstar personally... as if he didn't spend most of his time here, playing the piano and charming anyone capable of maintaining eye contact for more than two seconds.

More often than not Patrick missed working with Mazikeen, despite getting promoted when she left. She trained him well, but didn't mention how cooked Lux's books really were, how many criminals Mr. Morningstar gave favors to, or that the bar got demolished so often the renovations crew had an open tab.

At least the pay bumps were reasonable, following every other PTSD-inducing disaster so that Patrick could afford his obligatory LA therapist. And being the main bartender at Lux came with its own perks, like a selection of striking models asking him for discounts and incredible networking opportunities. He mixed drinks at a senator's wedding recently, and was now selling his politician friends cocaine with an insane markup.

He saw a man got killed on the dancefloor, sure. But he could afford his sister's college fees and was promised a manager's position once the Las Vegas extension was finally cleared for launch.

Many of his fellows tried their chances at this place, but dropped out after a few weeks, unable to keep up. Patrick just used his breaks to smoke weed and had long decided making sense of his situation wasn't worth the stress.

"Evening, Patrick. How's your shift?"

He didn't have to look up this time, recognizing the voice. Chloe Decker.

The woman who knew all of Lux's bouncers, but somehow got embarrassed every time they let her skip the line with a tired nod. Who never paid for her drinks and still ordered the cheapest specials. Who came in at odd hours with her own access card yet always apologized for interrupting a delivery or stepping on the freshly washed floor.

She was also the reason Patrick purchased extended life insurance as the number of in-club shootings increased exponentially since she started visiting. Whenever Mr. Morningstar strolled downstairs excited about a new murder case, Patrick texted Mr. Slonzky, a shady lawyer with his own bribe fund, after serving the boss his morning whisky.

He made small talk with the detective, fixed her a daiquiri and pointed up before turning to serve other guests. Ever since Mr. Morningstar and detective Decker started dating, Patrick didn't need his tv dramas anymore. He mildly enjoyed witnessing their prolonged chase, but now, as Chloe made her way to the elevator with a shy smile, he knew there were only three possible outcomes to this evening.

A. She storms out after ten minutes, cursing all that is sacred and slamming the doors - meaning he blew it.

B. She leaves quietly an hour later with sad eyes, lingering on the staircase - meaning she blew it.

C. They leave together the following morning and have coffee by the bar - meaning the blowing already happened, but they will find a new way to wreck it later on.

There was no in-between. But as the last call rolled and the remaining patrons wobbled out into the night, Patrick smirked from behind the register, getting ready to close. Every dog has its day.


	2. The Stylist

Chloe woke up suddenly, a mild sense of panic making her shiver under the warm covers. She pieced together her current predicament with a dry throat and sore muscles, undoubtedly the prelude to a moral and literal hungover.

She was alone in Lucifer's giant bed, clearly made for entertaining groups despite her naked body now taking the majority of it. When they talked yesterday... he did mention some business to take care of in the morning and joked about letting her sleep in for once, so that checked out. Trixie was at Dan's for the weekend, so Chloe could stretch under the silk sheets and start her day lazily with nothing planned ahead. Her own chores could wait until Sunday evening; for now, she wanted some of that imported coffee from the bar, then maybe a jog.

Except someone was in the penthouse with her.

She heard steps, light, but not quiet - most likely what woke her up in the first place. Grunting, then something shifting or pushed through the room, some coughing. Chloe reached for the bedside table but only grabbed her phone; her gun was back by the door with her coat because _this was supposed to be a safe space_.

Lucifer wouldn't wear shoes while she was still asleep. Maze always had heels on. Amenadiel had no reason to visit. A maid, perhaps? The place had to be cleaned somehow. Or maybe another booty call who didn't get the memo?

More shifting, then someone humming 'Mrs. Robinson' and breaking into song for the refrain.

There was no reason to be paranoid, Chloe thought as she creeped out of the bed, picking a heavy antique lamp. What were the chances someone was planting a bomb here? Lucifer promised to increase security after the last time, and he was a man of his word, even if she didn't exactly see him _do it_ yet, so...

"Freeze!", she shouted turning a corner and holding up the lamp. A middle-aged man carrying a suit bag indeed froze, dropping it on the floor, lips still open from the last verse of the song.

They both stayed silent for a moment before the man offered her a pleasant smile and raised his hands in surrender. Chloe counted the steps separating her from her gun.

"I am so sorry, miss, didn't mean to wake you. I wasn't told you'd be here." And yet, he didn't seem surprised at all.

Chloe slowly lowered the lamp, taking in the situation. The man was tall, well-dressed and could overpower her easily. She felt silly in Lucifer's crimson robe barely covering her knees, bedhair swaying in her face, standing in front of a distinguished person that looked like...

"Are you Lucifer's... tailor?", she asked hesitantly, noticing the open walk-in closet and garments laid out by the door. "Is this his laundry?"

"Oh no no no, miss, please don't take me for a maid", the man assured with a small smile and Chloe wasn't sure if the idea offended or amused him. "Now don't mind me, I'll just finish the delivery and get out out of your hair."

He resumed his activities and from the lack of further introductions she realized that in his world, she was the booty call. And that offended her.

"I wasn't told you'd be here either." Patrick wasn't exactly a doorman, though playing a trick on her might not be above him. One had to be crazy to work here. "So Lucifer doesn't pick out his own suits?"

After all his whining about ruined Pradas and Burberrys, she sort of suspected him of turning shopping trips into a big show. Stepping into exclusive stores like a star on the stage, drinking champagne and flirting with the clerks, this sort of thing.

The man relaxed into her presence a bit, hanging clothes as he spoke. "None of the sort, miss. Mr. Morningstar certainly does select his own wardrobe. Let's just say that he trusts me enough to delegate some duties." More shifting as he arranged the garments by color. "He didn't really pick accessories this season, so I hope he enjoys my suggestions. He seemed distracted lately."

Chloe idly pondered if the collection was worth more than her apartment before realizing the man's curious eyes, focused on her face. He cleared his throat before speaking again.

"I am Jonathan Berkovich, pleased to make your acquaintance. Tailor of the tailored, advisor of the apparel-conscious, currently on an errand for one of my best customers."

It sounded like a taught line, recited with the same cadence over years. Chloe smiled politely, trying to recall how much an Armani suit was, before recognizing her cue.

"Ah, I'm um, my name is Chloe Decker. I'm-"

"Detective Decker? I'm more than pleased then!"

Of course. Apparently Lucifer bragged about her to everyone he knew.

The tailor carried on. "My nephew actually branched out into women's fashion, I'm sure he'd love to work with you."

Wait, what _exactly_ was he telling people?

"Thank you, but I really don't think this is... my style", she replied, wondering if it would be rude to start getting dressed now.

"Everyone's got their own, certainly." And hers was scattered on the floor at the moment. "But trust me when I say that everything can be tailored. Nothing beats quality, though. I mended those countless times and would you even tell?"

She paused, a thousand thoughts speeding through her head. "Mended? Like from tearing?" Didn't Lucifer... just throw away his ruined clothes?

Berkovich waved his hand dismissively. "Tears in Italian wool, burns on silk pocket squares, bullet holes in the batiste shirts, you name it. These are made to last." He smiled to himself, straightening the jackets. "My father worked with him back in the day, you know, before Mr. Mornigstar disappeared. The man must have sold his soul to the Devil for not changing his measurements since!"

"So you know", she said warily, watching him with renewed interest. He chuckled, walking out of the closet.

"Miss Decker, the only thing I know is that you don't insult your best customers. Not with the blacklight and not with suspicions."


	3. The Lawyer

It was a sunny Monday morning when Chloe reached the precinct, refreshed from her lazy weekend. She even found a parking space right by her work and took it for a good sign; as far a homicide detective's day could go, it was making her optimistic. Until she met her coworkers' worried looks, pointing to her desk where a wide, tired-looking man stood vigil, a leather briefcase in hand.

She approached him casually, sitting by the computer without a smile. "Can I help you?"

The man didn't extend a hand, furrowing his brows in the universal ' _I'm too old for this shit_ ' expression.

"Victor Slonzky, legal affairs. I'm sorry to bother you first thing in the morning, detective Decker, but as the Burrows case wasn't closed yet, I was advised to seek your assistance."

He spoke with an accent and an accusatory tone, as if the case should be closed by now, at least by his standards. Chloe looked it up in the database, gesturing at him to take a seat, but he remained standing.

"And how can I assist you with that?"

"To be clear, I only need a copy of your report from the Sunset Boulevard club shooting and I'll be out of your hair."

She frowned, having heard that phrase recently. Was that..?

"You mean the shooting at Lux?", she ensured and Mr. Slonzky nodded impatiently. "Sir, this is an open investigation. If you could issue a request at the front desk, we will mail you a copy at the earliest possible-"

"Detective, let's not make this difficult", he interrupted. "The site was cleared by the forensics and is no longer a crime scene. City Council requires a written statement to approve the establishment's reopening and their processing time is ten working days at best. It's only a matter of paperwork." The man clenched his jaw, towering over her. "Now, this was never an issue in the past, so I'm sure we can come to an agreement."

Chloe cooperated with many legal councils in her career, but something about this man, how he seemed to despise being here, turned on her bullshit detector. It was like he normally wouldn't bother coming here personally, but was conned into running an errand, dragging him away from his regular affairs.

Realization dawned when he gave her a strained smile. Somehow she never expected Lucifer to have a lawyer. Either that, or he should have more than one.

"Did Lucifer send you here to bribe me?", she whispered angrily, standing up to leave. The man didn't abandon the polite act, unaffected by the accusation.

"Please don't think about me as an antagonist, detective. I'm more of a... protector of Mr. Morningstar's interests. And today I represent his club." He rested the briefcase on the chair to gesture with both hands. "Perhaps I could ask you for an official letter then, unrelated to case documentation? I'm sure the City Council wouldn't mind. It really is only a formality."

He gave her a knowing look, patiently waiting for her decision. Dan walked by her desk with subtle concern and she wordlessly signaled she didn't need his backup. Not against Lucifer's mob lawyer who apparently already read her file.

She sat back down and quickly typed some meaningless note. "Please wait here", she uttered and went to the office printer, waiting in line for the copy. Dan came over casually, but didn't hide his worried expression.

"Who is this guy?", he whispered as Chloe sorted through the papers in the tray. "He looks like Scarface's ugly cousin."

She snickered, fishing out the single-page parody of a report. "One of Lucifer's goons. Needs a prop for Lux's reopening after the shooting last week."

Daniel arched an eyebrow at her. "One of?"

She shrugged. "I'm not giving him access to the official statements. If he can work with my single signature, I don't want to know the rest."

The lawyer watched her return and sign the paper, then skimmed through the document. "Will this suffice, Mr. Slonzky?", she asked surly, watching his reaction, but he only nodded, hiding the document in his briefcase.

"It should for now", he stated slowly. "And I have already put out the official request, this is just a... precaution. Thank you ever so much, detective." He buttoned his jacket and Chloe was ready for him to leave when he suddenly leaned down to her. Stale cigarette smoke smell reached her nostrils.

"While it may not be my place to interfere, I understand you value your privacy, not to mention how very accomodating you've been today." Was he being sarcastic? "So I may suggest monitoring your social media presence more closely. With your past, things have a tendency of... escalating, if you know my meaning."

He straightened up and placed a name card on her desk. "If you'd ever wish to continue our cooperation", he added before leaving.

"Huh." She reached for the card, but it only stated his name and phone number. She would be adamant to Google him, not to mention using his services. That last thing he said, though...


	4. The Stalker

A slow day at the precinct meant Chloe had several hours to obsess about the mob lawyer's words. As no new murders were assigned to her, Lucifer didn't visit, letting her deal with the paperwork and overdue interrogations with persons of interests related to her older cases.

Neither she nor Dan had a Wobble account and she didn't feel confident speaking to her daughter about possibly compromising posts. Late in the afternoon, she gathered the courage to enter the police lab, hoping Ella would be up-to-date with the online drama.

She observed the forensic scientist for a moment, sitting by the computer with headphones on, before lightly touching her shoulder. Ella winced, then smiled in recognition, pausing the music.

"Decker!", she exclaimed, turning away from ongoing blood analysis. "Are you here for the Hadley report? 'Cause some tests take longer than a day I'm afraid. I could try to rush it, but it would be the third time in a-"

"Are there any weird posts about me online?", Chloe cut her off, profoundly unconcerned with the lab results. "This guy told me something was up, and I don't know who else to ask."

Ella felt silent for a moment before resolving into a nervous giggle. "Wait, you think I leaked something? I would never, Chloe!" She reached for her phone, showing her all uploaded photos. "See? I have a few with Lucifer, but this is just from our outing the other day, and all we did was have some tacos at Trejo's."

Cloe scanned through her posting history, but didn't recognize anything alarming. Was the lawyer just pushing her buttons? Or was he concerned some of that innocent content could somehow affect her image..?

"Look, I know you're not into this, but I follow all of Lucifer's accounts, and even Amenadiel's Insta, though all he posts are his son's closeups. There's nothing about you in there."

She meant it calmingly, though Chloe felt somehow disturbed. She asked Lucifer not to mention her online, sure, but... She felt like a silly teenager, tempted to create a fake account just to make sure his exes didn't simp over him. She shook the feeling away, focusing on the task at hand.

"Did you take any other photos? Some that may have gotten out... somehow?"

Ella swiped through her gallery, focused. "What are you looking for? I don't have any pics of you guys together... except... well, but I never posted that one, so it doesn't count, right?" She giggled nervously, showing Chloe the screen.

It had to be taken two weeks ago, when they went undercover for the Burrows case. They were dancing and Chloe had her hand on Lucifer's face, a shining ring on her index finger. Without the context, it could totally look like an engagement photo, though.

"Could you check if it didn't show up anywhere?" She knew how unreasonably it sounded, but she would rather not contact Mr. Slonzky for clarification. Especially since she already knew who she needed to talk to next.

"Sure thing, Decker", Ella cautiously replied, making a show of turning off her phone synch features. "But if this is a case, it's really not a big deal. Who cares if you looked sweet for once? I don't know what that guy told you, but this isn't compromising at all. I mean, you and Lucifer are official, right?"

She closed her eyes, calming the irrational fears inside. Of course they were _official_ , as serious as a two-week relationship can be. But there were real obstacles ahead, if not for her boyfriend being the Satan, then at least his playboy appearance. She took a deep breath, composing herself.

"You're right, I'm overreacting. I guess I am a little out-of-touch." She didn't dare say old.

Ella gave her an understanding look and Chloe excused herself before a hug followed. She got into her conveniently parked car and went straight to the place she really hoped she'd never visit again. She kept telling herself how little it mattered, but after years of acting and dealing with paparazzi, then years of investigating stalkers' victims for the police, she couldn't fight the dreadful feeling it could escalate into something truly frightening. Especially if her gut was right about the culprit.

After two years it was surely hopeless, she thought walking through the tiled corridor. No way Suki Price still lived here and was still obsessed with Lucifer. And yet when she knocked on the door, a part of her counted on the creepy stalker being there, because at least it would be a known evil.

The puns were never going to leave her now.

"Hello?", a tiny voice greeted through the door opened only as wide as the security chain would stretch. "Oh God it's you." The door slammed shut and Chloe put her forehead against it, sighing deeply and hoping her words would reach the girl through the plywood.

"Miss Price? Suki? This is detective Decter, I'm sure you remember me." She heard some shuffling on the other side but couldn't tell what was being moved. _Please don't let it be a body_. "Look, this is not about a case, I'm here on my own accord." She prepped herself for something she really didn't want to say. "I need your help. Could you please let me in?"

The door bolted open and Chloe stood eye to eye with the eager girl, dressed in an oversized Pikachu sweatshirt. "Future miss Morningstar, of course! Sorry for the delay, I had to clean up a little." Chloe reluctantly came in, noticing the pizza boxes stacked against the wall in a tall column. _And no bodies._ What kind of mess required only three minutes to be put away..?

"So how can I help you guys?", Suki chirped before peeking behind her. "Oh, you're alone. Well, what's up? How's the dreamlife?"

"What?" Chloe felt lost again. The apartment decorations changed since she last visited - there was now an entire section on Suki's wall dedicated to her, with various photos cornered with heart-patterned washi tape, although none seemed to be especially incriminating. Just snips of her and Lucifer drinking together, some innocent dancing, and her talking to Amenadiel and Maze, mysterious cotton strings of connections completing the sinister stalking nature of the tableau.

She took a steadying breath.

"I was warned something online could put me... well, Lucifer as well... in a compromising position." Suki didn't look anything but excited. "You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"

The girl went for her laptop, switching between more tabs than Chloe's mind could comprehend. "I have alerts for all things Lucifer-related", she gasped, scrolling through a board. "Do you mean the news that you finally got together? This is, like, my favorite ship, you can't take it down!"

Chloe came over, painfully aware of the Lucifer dolls staring at her from the shelves. "How would you find out about that? Did someone post a photo?"

"So it's true? Oh Lord, the Deckerstar board will lose it! Was that just a hookup, or are you going steady? I had my suspicions, but now they will finally believe me-"

"No!" Chloe extended a hand to stop the rambling. "No, I don't want any of that to be... discussed online. I was only told there was some circulating content that I should be aware of. And I really don't need the paparazzi going after me again, so could you please just tell me what is out there? I mean, how did you even know about... _us_?

Suki smirked mischievously. "Well, it was pretty obvious to me, but the guys on Tumblr needed a little convincing." She showed her a gallery with a few clicks. "Those would be so easy to photoshop, but I pride myself on truthful journalism. You know, some tabloids approached me, but I'd never give them-"

"Please delete those."

There they were. A series of snapshots of them in Lux from last week. Nothing meaningful apart, but together showing a story of her continued inebriation, a lot of casual touching, and the money shot as the elevator doors were closing on them. How did Suki even get those without anyone noticing was beyond her.

"Delete them before I charge you with stalking and get a restraining order. This might be fun for Lucifer, but I can't even articulate how wrong it is."

Suki lingered on the last few photos with an unsettlingly nostalgic expression. "Oh, you have a daughter to protect, right?" She smiled sadly, still fixated on their intimate pose, hands all over each other. "Look, Lucifer is a god, and I'm alright just watching from afar. After all, I've met him and it meant nothing. I'm invisible even with a camera. And I know it's pathetic, okay? But I tried, and between fanfiction and doujinshis, this is as real as it gets for me. No one just measures up, you know?"

She wasn't on a verge of tears. She was stating what was facts to her, and that scared Chloe even more.

"Why are you idealizing him so much?", she asked slowly, trying to catch her eyes. "Underneath the glamour, he's a person, Suki, with some really deep issues. He's not a god." _His father is God._

"Is that why you are dating him?", she perked up with renewed enthusiasm. "I mean, I would disintegrate to have _anyone_ look at me once like he's looking at you in those photos. When I can't sleep, I just imagine his eyes and-"

"Suki", Chloe interrupted, reaching out for her sanity. "This is a fantasy. It's not real. Please, focus on your own life, your achievements. No man is worth obsessing over to this extend."

It was like talking an addict out of heroin. "You're only saying that because you're together. I should abandon my unachievable goal not because it's unreal, but because I'm so close to the flame it may cast a shadow on you, ain't that right?"

"What..?" Regroup, Chloe, don't get angry. This is a fangirl. ...what would Ella do?

"Would you like to meet him for a coffee?"

Suki lightened up for a fraction of a second before a mask of skepticism pulled over her features. "Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not", Chloe sighted. She was battling a sense of low self-esteem worse than her daddy issues. "I can see this is unhealthy, but I also know I'm not the person to solve this. So if you were to meet him, would it make it better, or only fuel your obsession?"

"If I was to... but he would never..!"

"I don't mean a hookup, Suki. Surely, if you already spent this much time researching, you would rather become friends with him, right?" Chloe kept going, crossing her fingers it would work. "Look, I know you're a good person, but this is getting dangerous. And I don't want anything bad to happen to you, truly. So would you trade this whole... uncanny online worship thing... for the real thing?"

She just made this girl a deal. Lucifer's satanic cackle in her head was only getting louder.

"And he would go for that?" Suki was hugging her knees in such a dejected stance it was hard to stay mad at her, though the stalker wall in the background spoiled the picture.

"I don't know, but we can give it a try. Just... no more photos, okay? And no more dolls. And I'll make the call right away."

She watched Suki delete the posts, feeling only slightly relieved. This could go wrong in so many ways, and Lucifer would love all of them.


	5. The Housekeepers

A good thing about working in housekeeping was the hours. The cleaners usually had to complete the job when no one was home, so they often had mornings and evenings off. And spending afternoons in air-conditioned interiors was a great way to avoid the heatwaves.

While sweeping offices and hotels could be a soul-sucking exploit, private dwellings were more of a Kinder egg surprise. Everyone in the industry had a horror story, though they rarely went above unusual fetishes or discovering an affair. After all, people weren't that unique, if a thousandth wine stain on a beige rug was any indication.

Medium-class families were usually embarrassed about needing help; some people would nervously clean before their arrival as if they weren't paid by the hour. They often offered snacks and apologized for dirty dishes in the sink.

New money was by far the worst, obsessed about being robbed and treating everyone like servants. Celebrity houses were serviced by agencies that screened applicants no worse than the Pentagon, yet the turnabout rates were through the roof. Wealthy engineers, doctors and lawyers either made a point of ignoring them or acted entitled to fit in with the snobs.

Old money tended to perceive cleaning as a necessary service they valued, even if they didn't heed it much attention. They relied on recommendations and once they were satisfied with the results they didn't change the arrangements, making them the most difficult client group to reach.

Lucifer Morningstar and his penthouse seemed to mix up all those groups in some bizarre extravagance. Almost a celebrity, obnoxiously rich but tasteful, and he always left them snacks.

"What do you think it'll be this time? The usual, or with extra blood on the couch?"

The three women squeezed in the elevator with their cleaning supplies. For Sally, the youngest of them, it was the first time here. So far things were pretty standard, but by the cunning looks of her two coworkers, Patricia and Janet, she was expecting some hazing. This place was known as a hard-to-get gig and she basically had it handed to her, so she didn't blame them for teasing her.

"Are you shitting me? The guy already pays us like we're the corpse removal. If he wasn't with the cops, I'd report him myself." Janet was always exaggerating as if none of them ever got tipped for keeping quiet about their client's secrets.

Before Sally joined in, the women worked with her sister Meghan, forming somewhat of a witch convent. Meggs never shared with her much, except how well paid the job was.

"You have to admit the place is nice, though", Sally spoke up, entering the apartment's open living space. She went straight to the balcony to air out the lingering weed smoke.

"Yeah, well, I used to work for this guy who hid in the closet and jerked off while I dusted. Gotta say this is a step up." Patricia was the oldest in the group and knew just about anything about the industry. Still, the two women rolled their eyes - sexual harassment was a given anywhere.

"You can use the stereo system for music, and there is food in the fridge that's actually meant for us. No matter what's been going on here, the guy means well." Janet unleashed her maternal instincts while laying out their equipment. "This is your first time, so you don't know. The guy's peculiar; don't misplace anything. If it lays on the floor, dust around and leave it there. Oh, and feathers go to this box", she added, pointing to a small container by the door.

The youngest girl turned around from a weirdly out-of-place painting of a mermaid and picked up a wet cloth. "Feathers?"

Patricia was already in the washroom, so Janet carried out the explanations. "Yeah, they're here sometimes, no one knows why. Unless they're not white, he said we can burn the gray ones for all he cares."

"Huh." Sally adjusted her rubber gloves, cleaning the tall bar full of liquor bottles so foreign she wasn't sure of the brands' pronunciation. "Look, I know what you're doing, but I've been cleaning apartments since high school. And after that gerbil nut, nothing surprises me."

Janet stopped changing the sheets to look at her curiously and Sally realized her way into the circle.

"He would release like a dozen gerbils in the house, then sit in a chair and watch me clean with them running around. Said it reminded him of childhood."

"And he didn't masturbate?", Patricia chuckled from the bathroom, proving she's been listening in the entire time. "Insane."

Sally smirked, getting a folded ladder to reach the top bar shelves. "So what, do we top these off with water or..?" she proposed, but Janet cut her off sharply.

"Don't try, he'll know. But you can have a drink if you want, there are no cameras. Towels and clothes go to that bin, Jonathan takes care of them."

"Alright", she shrugged, starting the dishwasher and moving to clean the grand piano. "Wait, didn't you mention blood?"

"Yeah, it comes off with cold water and baking soda." Janet was straightening trinkets on the dark antique desk. "If you find any body parts, just call Chloe, she'll take it from there."

"I thought our manager was Sharon?"

"Detective Chloe is with the police. If she comes right away, you get a shorter shift." Janet finished putting away books and started wiping glass surfaces, swaying slightly to the cheery Latino pop playing in Dolby surround.

"Did that ever happen?"

"Don't worry about it."

Weirdest hazing ever. Sally changed the water in the buckets and rinsed the cleaning cloths for the other women while waiting for the dishwasher to finish the cycle.

Patricia put away the laundry and finished the second bathroom, then came to the bar to rest, smelling strongly of pine air freshener. Janet took a break at the same time and they all helped themselves to the sandwiches in the fridge.

"If you see someone around, just nod and carry on", Patricia remembered, brushing the crumbs from her blouse into the sink. "We're paid by the hour."

Sally nodded, then frowned, putting together the pieces that didn't seem made up. Feathers, booze, hot tub on the balcony... Luxurious homes might come with a pay bump, but it would be naive to expect money to change people that much.

"Does the owner... you know, ever come up here during..?"

The two women exchanged looks and giggled, covering their mouths. That was an unexpected reaction.

"It can happen", Janet replied, hiding her blush behind a napkin.

"And if so, all bets are off", Patricia added without a hint of embarrassment. "Just let yourself go, Sally, we've all been through it. The man is a terrible flirt, but he knows what 'no' means." She picked up a mop as they all moved to clean the floors last. "That can't be said for most of them", she added darkly.

Wooden floors were the worst, Sally thought as she did her section, careful not to dampen the planks. "So he hits on you?"

"Not exactly." Patricia got the tiled parts for seniority and took her sweet time as the other two women polished the cherry parquet. "He makes you a drink, then asks what you desire. It's kinda weird, but he tries to accommodate." She paused to scrub a stained grout with a bristled brush. "Like this one time I wished for better cleaning supplies and he got the whole closet just for me to make the work easier."

"Well", Sally sighed, straightening her back for a second. "If it's such a sweet gig, why'd Meghan quit?"

Patricia and Janet exchanged strained looks before the latter spoke, reaching under the furniture with an extending mop.

"Your sister cares about you very much, that's all."

Sally scoffed. "Enough to skip town without saying a word? Meggs wasn't easily scared, she wouldn't run away from an old guy's dick. So what happened?"

Janet avoided her eyes, keeping her tone calm and soothing. "Meghan saw something she shouldn't have, but it wasn't like that. We were all sorry to see her go."

Sally sat up on her knees, getting pissed from the secrecy. Her sister traveled all the way back to Colorado to their family with lame excuses of getting homesick and wanting to reconnect with her roots, and she hoped at least her coworkers could shine some light on that sudden change of heart.

"Did she witness a murder here or something?", she snapped, nerves getting to her. "'Cause don't get me wrong, I can wash used syringes, but I don't want no trouble. Money won't buy me no clean conscience."

It was Janet who cracked first. "She saw someone get shot and not die."

"I got shot twice, what's with that?"

"In the head", Janet added softly, rinsing a cloth. "Point blank."

The silence seemed to drag, Latino pop CD long finished, before Patricia briskly marched to Sally and took the mop out of her hands, replacing it with a glass of whisky.

"Don't think about it", she said pointedly. "No one got hurt and that's what matters. Just give it a go and see if you like the money enough to work for the Devil."


	6. The  Accountant

During the week, Sarah set her alarm clock for 5:45 am, so she could hit snooze three times before she had to get up. On the weekends, her children woke her up anywhere between seven and ten by jumping on her bed in excitement for a day of fun.

But today was Thursday, meaning coffee would be waiting on the kitchen counter when she made her way down in an unthreatening beige suit and unoffending makeup. Her husband David would hand her lunch and kiss her goodbye before going back to sleep for another hour, then waking the kids for breakfast. Sarah liked to start the day early just to drink coffee with him in silence, the only time they could be alone together ever since their third son was born. They will both be in their fifties before the kids move out and let them have silence again whenever they wanted.

Today was real estate day, meaning she would spend the majority of her working hours stuck in a car, traversing Los Angeles to reach five different renting agencies that couldn't know about each other. She entered each one with a smile, collected under-the-table paperwork and exchanged pleasantries for as long as necessary to not look suspicious on the security tapes. When she finally got hungry an hour to noon, she ate lunch in the car and took her daily pills that could only go down with a meal.

Peter, her younger brother, called in the early afternoon to catch up. It was restaurant day for him, so he took the motorcycle out to easily navigate between twenty establishments he had to visit to collect the over-the-table bills. He bought snacks at half of them and ate on the curb, sliding sunglasses over his long hair as he took in the warm spring sun.

"You know you're the best boss ever, sis?" he gleamed over the phone, getting ready for their office meetup. Sarah snarked into the Bluetooth speaker set, making sure the duffel bag full of unprocessed to-be-cash wasn't visible from the outside of her car.

Her brother's wife Chance was an early-education teacher in a private school. She was currently working on a Ph.D. in cognitive sciences to better support children with special needs. She was holding off getting pregnant to make sure it wouldn't get in the way of her work. Peter was ready to put in more hours once she was on maternity leave and often asked Sarah for parenting advice.

The sibling's accounting office downtown wasn't rented for its looks nor views. It took a third of a second floor in a rectangular 2001 office building filling the city landscape without paying it a compliment. Function took over with the low ceilings and easy-to-clean carpets, silencing steps of people who lived their real lives outside of 9-to-5 shifts drenched in the scent of printer ink.

It was so easy to pack up the office and move to a different location overnight.

One of the interns proof-checked Sarah's stack of undigitalized invoices while she called home to make plans for the weekend. Her husband had an art show at a gallery and it was a paying one this time, so he was excited to have a babysitter come in while they went for a semi-working date. Sarah enjoyed watching him mingle with the potential investors and would gladly take over house duties Sunday morning to let him sleep off the stress.

* * *

She used to be a corporate career woman, an exhausted executive micromanaged to the brink of insanity. Going freelance was a leap that many came back from drained and broke, but when she took the glass elevator to the twentieth floor and realized she kept looking down in hopes the steel ropes would break, she knew the only way was out.

Money one owns is useless unless it's spent. It's the money moved around in turnovers and sales that keeps the economy afloat, allowing for goods and services to be exchanged. It doesn't grow on trees, but it doesn't stink either.

* * *

Sarah's children were being taught by her brother's wife and Peter's clean work was covering her dirty one so they could all afford their mortgages. While Sarah felt personally responsible for keeping the machine well oiled, she couldn't call herself the mastermind of it. One cogwheel falling off would destroy the entire operation and land all of them in prison, so they had to stick together, trust each other enough to know the other one would never talk.

As a result, their families were closer than ever. They took turns babysitting and helped out building DIY pizza ovens for garden parties. They double-checked each other's tax statements to make sure nothing slipped out.

The cruel beauty of capitalism was that Sarah employed her family and maintained a comfortable life by making money for someone much more powerful. She was replaceable, her boss wasn't. If he went to jail, if he slipped, they would all go down with him. So while she had no control over her boss' actions, she did everything to minimalize the risk factor to a tiny, compartmentalized dreadful twinkle that only rarely kept her up at night. She could afford very good doctors now.

And to think those invisible spider webs started with a single favor, the puniest bit of luck she just had to help to put her on the right path. Four years ago, when she was still selling herself short in the corporate rat race, she only wished for her coworker to call in sick one Tuesday. Nothing more - the smallest advantage, one she would pay off so quickly after it allowed her to snatch a project that let her meet her future stakeholders after she went freelance.

She paid it off three months later by delivering a thin stack of invoices to a tired-looking man with a weird accent.

Another half a year and a ruined credit score later she had to admit pushing thick reams of suspicious accounts paid better than a dream she was saving for for a decade.

She only peeked behind the curtain once. At the very beginning, before she thought of carrying pepper spray and a taser, when she still liked to sleep in and complete rounds after dark, she was attacked by a man who knew the exact value of the papers she was carrying. When a rough hand closed around her throat, she thought about her children, the youngest only alive inside of her, before she heard a swish, felt a pull, then saw blood pour out of the attacker's mouth, inches from her face.

Mazikeen checked her for injuries, picked up the cargo and walked her to the car. She drove her home in tense silence and sat in a parked car for what felt like hours, waiting for Sarah to stop crying. During all this time, she only spoke once.

"Would you rather have this job?"

Because everything Sarah did, she did for her children, and they didn't understand nor care for her work. They didn't have to be ashamed in private schools where all of their peers' parents did the same thing for a living: business. Complicated, demanding business that paid for tuition, self-driving cars and home security systems. Hundreds of people unaware of the subtle connections between them, and Sarah only knew a fraction of it.


	7. The Supplier

Terry parked his truck at the back entrance to Lux and waved to... _someone_ smoking by the door. Before unlocking the trunk, he glanced at the thick notebook on the passenger's seat, its content worth more than boxes of aged English whisky he was delivering.

He was never good with names, faces and the rest of what made people individuals. Getting into logistics meant hours of driving in solitude and he was generally content with that. But times have changed and ever since starting his own business, he had to overcome the boredom enveloping him whenever someone introduced themselves and _remember them_. Countless self-help audiobooks didn't change his nature, so he maintained a socially acceptable posture by completely faking it.

His entire client base, years of small talk and maintaining facade, described in neat bios, updated with scribbled notes of trivia that made Terry seem like he cared. He flipped the pages to the newer entries for young establishments. Most of them didn't make it beyond two years in the harsh competitiveness of the LA bar scene and got crossed out from his delivery routes with a black pen.

_Lux 2011 -_

_Owner - Lucifer Morningstar - Mr. Devil_

Terry smiled to himself. Sometimes he didn't need to write down all the details. The single line described the man perfectly and made for countless little gift ideas that he could pick up with the shipments to get into his graces. Mr. Devil was also one of the few who made personal orders together with business ones. They were particular, too: French cigarettes, Russian dolls... Cocaine, but he couldn't be his only dealer with how little he smuggled.

_Manager - Mazikin/Maize ? sex demon knives_

_Head Bartender - Patrick ?O'Neil? tattoos junkie master math_ Oh right, he waved at Patrick. Good to know.

_Cleaners - Patricia 3/4? kids, Meghan pretty, Janet_

_Acoustics - Mike ? weird perv_

_DJ - ~~Josh~~ ~~Rick~~ ~~Ace~~ ~~Raven~~ ~~Phil~~ ~~Vicky~~ whatev_

He focused on the names one last time before exiting the car to unload Lux's bi-weekly order, then rolled the boxes on the trolley through the back doors held open by the bartender.

"Hey, Patrick, how've you been? That a fresh one?", he asked merrily, pointing at a dark tattoo peeking out of the man's short sleeve.

"Still working on it." Patrick picked the top boxes and grabbed the invoices laying on top. "You got the whole order?"

"Minus the Krug Brut, my guy got stuck in customs with the shipment", Terry spoke doing rounds from his car. "It's on the slip, I'll get it for ya next time."

The bartender nodded, checking the inventory. "Do you need help with that?"

"Got it, boss." As if he ever needed help bribing his way through the border. "Want me to carry up the groceries?"

Lux's owner used to order random large quantities of everything, then bring bottles for personal consumption to his apartment upstairs. A few visits from IRS set him straight from the novice mistake, though, and now private bills were collected in a separate folder under the bar, from what Terry could observe. Still not playing it completely safe, but it was none of his business.

He looked around while Patrick ran the order against the paperwork, ogling the dancers getting ready before their shift. A slank man tuning the grand piano spotted him and Terry swallowed a curse, approaching him with a smile.

"Hiya, Mike. Mr. Devil not around?"

"Nah, he's out." The acoustician had a sour look on his pale face, meaning one of _those_ moods.

"Too bad, I got something for him." Terry looked at the instrument with mild interest, hoping Patrick could hurry up through his stoned haze for once.

"Yeah, me too." Mike twisted something inside the piano, pressed an ivory key and grimaced. "A piece of my mind upon seeing this girl in shambles."

"Ain't it good for you though?", Terry humored the rant, yawning on the inside. "Figured you make two livings cleaning booze off this thing."

Mike winced at the very thought. "Maybe, but it's not right to treat the poor girl like a keyboard. They shove her 'round, move her every day and those drunk bitches lay on her like she's a sofa, and I can't always be here."

"You sure it's a she?"

"I keep telling him, no matter how pretty the chick is, pianos are not for fucking on them", Mike carried on, ignoring the interruption. "You should'va seen her sister upstairs. Clearly the favorite, not a smudge on her body. This Cinderella can't even sing proper with the wall curtains a-mufflin'." He sighed deeply, pressing another key. "This place does her a disservice."

Patrick caught Terry's eyes from across the bar and nodded his approval, so he picked up a clinging crate to carry upstairs.

"Whatever you say, Mike", he added absentmindedly, glad to escape into the silent elevator. One last chore to do and he'll be able to hit the road. Man, acousticians were weird.

He made the grocery round for a chance to coax Mr. Devil into another side deal, but with him gone, he could settle for admiring the penthouse city view. After hanging in windowless bars and dirty outback parkings all day, it was nice to soak in a few pretty sights. As he entered the apartment, he glanced at the black piano in the middle of the room, but it didn't look any different from the one downstairs to him.

"Oh, hi", a woman in rubber gloves greeted him and his mind went blank. Ruby, Greta, Betty, Patty? Penny, Paula, Prudence-

"Patricia! You look nice today." He bought himself some time while the housekeeper took the box off his hands, but he still couldn't recall anything remarkable about her.

"The kids are good, Terry, no need to ask me every time", she laughed and the notes finally appeared in his head. "Lemme put those away for you." 

He smiled nervously and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Thanks. Just you today?"

She looked back at him, as if she didn't expect the small talk. "Janet's in the loo. Our new girl couldn't handle Hell's heat, so if you know someone, ring me up."

"Will do", he assured, taking the cue to leave. Patricia was already unscrewing one of the bottles with her gloved hand.

* * *

On the stairs, he almost bumped into a barely dressed woman. He would've mistook her for a dancer if not for an unsettling gleam in her eye and recognition dawned.

"Miss Maze." The self-proclaimed demon stared right through him, but he wasn't deterred. "Were you looking for Mr. Devil as well?"

"No", she replied offhandedly, but changed the direction and walked him to the bar. Patrick passed him a glass of water without a lemon slice, the prick.

"Well, if you spare me a minute, I got some samples from a new place..." He searched his pockets, not wanting a clever gift to go to waste.

Maze fetched her phone, stepping away. "I don't work here anymore."

She didn't remember his name, huh. After four years. Well, not everybody could maintain a notebook, and he shouldn't ruin a potential business prospect, no matter where she was employed now.

"Would you like a sip anyway?", he showed her a mini-bottle. "I've no taste for the thing, I could write down your thoughts for the other clients."

She smirked at the label. "As long as it's not pig swill mixed with ash."

"Now _that_ would be a great name for a blend."

* * *

Finally done, Terry shook Patrick's hand and pocketed the two pills of Adderall for later. His wife loved the stuff ever since she started curating at the gallery. Helps dealing with the rich idiots, she said.

Back in his car, he whipped out a pen and added small notes on Lux's page.

 _Manager -_ ~~_Mazikin/Maize ? sex demon knives_~~ _QUIT_

 _Cleaners - Patricia 3/4? kids,_ ~~ _Meghan pretty_ ~~ _, Janet + ?, don't ask a/kids so often_

 _Rem:_ _NO 'Lucifer's Gold'_ _, pig swill re/Maize_

This helped him deal with his rich idiots.

He turned a page to find Mikeal Maglieri and quickly reviewed the skimp notes - the man was nothing like his father. Terry cleared his throat and started the truck for the short drive to Whisky a Go Go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a stupid amount of research for this piece :D


End file.
